Bellis
by isawrightless
Summary: He cups her face, caresses her cheek with his thumb. The water is warm on her skin, and the front of his shirt is wet, his arms and hands are wet, and he gets wetter when she hugs him.


this is a sort of sequel to 'roses' but can be read as a stand alone.

* * *

She's sleeping.

Has been for a while now, and he can't help but wonder what to do. Should he go inside, rattle her, wake her up? Should he tell her to smile again or should he wait for her darkness to fade out?

"I feel empty," she told him three days ago, lying on the bed, never making eye contact with him as he sat next to her, caressing her hair. She'd rather look at the blank space on the wall than drown into his need to help her, but he noticed she had dragged her hand down to her stomach when she told him, he noticed the caresses she made there with her fingertips and he understood she was trying to find something that no longer existed.

He felt sick then, his head was heavy and he couldn't breathe, but he stood by her side and took her hand in his, squeezed it before bringing it to his lips and kissing it. She didn't look at him. She wouldn't talk more than two sentences about it, about their dead baby.

She would never

She

She's sleeping.

The blankets are on the floor, she's curled into a ball on the left side of the bed wearing one of his t-shirts that are too big to fit her properly. She's joked once that she could strap a belt on her waist and wear his shirt as a dress. She's not joking now.

He's worried.

Her skin is paler than ever now, her lips have lost their red, her hair is a tangled mess. She hasn't been eating, she hasn't been doing anything besides sleeping and waiting.

He leaves the bedroom, heads downstairs. He calls their doctor, he's full of it, tyring to be sympathetic and offering advice that he offers to anyone.

Chris hangs up.

He tries to distract himself, but it's no use, so he goes back to their bedroom.

There's blood on the sheets.

He lets that sink in.

There's blood on her clothes, on his shirt.

He lets that sink in too.

It's all for a second, really, one tiny second in which he panics and his heart moves to his throat and the room starts spinning. Then it stops and he moves.

He shakes her gently on the shoulder, calls her name. She opens her eyes, finally, and it's a relief, and he's about to tell her what's happened when she looks down, sees the blood, sighs and tries not to cry.

"It's fine," he says, and without waiting for a response picks her up, and it feels good to have her in his arms again. "It's fine."

She rests her head on his chest and the sound of her small, broken sob breaks his heart. With her on his arms, he finds their way to the bathroom, turns on the shower and steps away. He sets her on the floor, but supports her and tells her to lift her arms. He takes off the shirt, takes off her panties, they're all stained, they're all tainted, he takes her hand and brings her to the shower.

The water hits her but she's motionless, he washes her hair, the tears on her face, he's getting wet too, and there's blood running down her thighs, turning lighter in the water and heading for the drain.

It's normal, he tells himself. It's normal. Something about the uterus cleaning itself, something about that.

He's shaking, but trying to hide it.

He cups her face, caresses her cheek with his thumb. The water is warm on her skin, and the front of his shirt is wet, his arms and hands are wet, and he gets wetter when she hugs him.

When she's done showering, he wraps her around a towel, closes the lid of the toilet and tells her to sit. She obeys, she's weak, her hair is falling on her face so he brushes it aside, tucks it behind her ears.

"I'm gonna get you something to wear, alright?" he says, and she nods.

He's about to pick up some clothes when he takes notice of the tainted sheets. The red spot on the perfect white. He takes a deep breath. He can't break down, but he can't swallow the lump on his throat either.

He changes the sheets, goes down the stairs in a rush to throw the old ones in the washer, and then goes back up, grabs one of his t-shirts because he knows she prefers them to sleep in, and the first underwear he finds in the drawer.

"Why did you take so long?" she asks, her voice is weak and low.

"I changed the sheets."

"Oh," she says. "Thank you."

He nods.

"Here," he says, handing her a black underwear, and a navy blue t-shirt and the underwear. "I know you like this one."

She inspects the t-shirt, the fabric is ragged and old, there's a tiny hole on the edge of the right sleeve, and there's nothing to it, no band picture or funny saying, it's just a t-shirt that she likes for some reason. She then proceeds to put on her underwear and stops right before lifting the piece of clothing right over her knees.

"The cabinet," she says, points to the cabinet under the bathroom sink. "There's…there's…" she closes her eyes, holds her hand in the air as if she's trying to think of something, to remember the word.

Chris opens the cabinet, finds a stock of beauty products, toothpastes, deodorants, shaving razors and—-

"Tampons?" he asks, looking at her.

She shakes her head, "No, not tampons, there's a little green box there with pads."

"Green box…" he mutters and crouches down in front of the cabinet, moving objects around and tyring to find the damn thing.

"Yeah, it's got….daisies all over it," she says.

"Found it," and he stands up, the green box with daises all over it in his right hand. She smiles. He tries not not to make a big deal out of it, afraid it will scare her off. He keeps trying to get her to talk, and as she's unpacking and unwrapping a pad, sticking it to the center of her underwear, he asks:

"What's the difference between pads and tampons again?"

She doesn't respond, he sighs.

She stands up, lifts her panties all the way up to her waist, and she tries to walk but falters. He's there to catch and help her, and she holds on to him.

"Don't let me fall," she says. They walk to their bedroom, and she doesn't comment on the sheets, lets go of his arm and lies on the bed, curls herself back into a ball.

Chris sits next to her, his hand on top of her left side.

"Listen, if I cook something, will you eat it? You don't have to eat the entire thing, just a bite or two."

She shakes her head.

"Jill, please, just a tiny bite, you haven't….you haven't eaten anything in a while, and…Please?"

"I'm not hungry."

"Jill."

"Maybe later."

"Really?"

"Maybe."

"Ok."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

"You'd have been a good father."

"What?"

"You're good with kids."

"Jill."

"I lost our baby."

"It wasn't your fault."

"I…I can't do this anymore. I feel….I feel empty," she sits up, it's too fast, she's crying, she's sobbing, she's weeping, she's howling, she's….she's falling apart, and he 's crying too, he is, he can't stop his eyes from watering or the tears from rolling down his cheek, but he's strong, isn't he, he's strong, he's taking care of her, he's…

"I'm bleeding all the time!" she shouts, and he tries to calm her down, but she's choking on sobs, he tries to get closer, tries to hold her, but she pushes him away.

"Every cramp I get, every drop of blood reminds me of what happened, and I can't do this anymore, I can't bleed anymore, Chris, it's too much, please….I just…"

He pulls her closer and into his embrace and she lets him, she cries and cries until she can't anymore, and she says, "I just need to stop bleeding."

He promises her she will.

They both will.

Her breakdown lasts for a good while until she falls asleep in his arms.

And then it's his turn.

He sobs quietly and grieves the loss of a son or daughter he will never meet, grieves the loss of a kind of life he will never know.

Yet he never lets go of Jill.

(they're in hell but they've been there before he knows they're in hell but there's a way out he thinks knows thinks no he knows there's a way out)


End file.
